


If I Can Dream

by LovinJackson



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-04-07 18:21:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14086848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LovinJackson/pseuds/LovinJackson
Summary: Sometimes good people make bad decisions. When sent on a solo mission, Aramis becomes lost to everyone ... including himself. He must fight to remember who he really is while his brothers fight to bring him home. Set in between S1 and S2.





	1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Hey everyone. It's been a damn long time since I posted anything. Life, as I'm sure most of you know, has a way of getting in the way of the things we love to do. But I'm doing this ... I'm forcing myself to make time for the things that I love to do. So if anyone is willing to read this know that it is a work in progress with a very fleshed out plan. This story came to be a very long time ago (Back when the Musketeers first ended) and I NEED to finish it. I plan to make sure that there is never more than 2 weeks before another update. Posting here will keep me accountable :D Hope everyone is doing well and I hope ya'll enjoy.

**If I Can Dream.**

**Chapter 1. Call of Duty.**

Benoit took in the view in front of him. The road was long and straight for a few more hundred metres at least. The grass on either side of the road was light green, bordering on a faded yellow that spoke of too much sun and not enough rain. The occasional tree stood tall by the side of the road, the leaves still in the dead heat that surrounded them.

It had been hot, unseasonably so. At least that was what he had been told. He wished he had some basis for comparison. He had been  _told_  that he knew this road like the back of his hand. He had been  _told_  that he was used to the dry summers. He had been  _told_  that this place would strike a memory, a feeling, anything to settle his heart. He had been told many things but he still knew so very little.

Benoit shifted in the saddle. His rear was starting to feel numb. He'd been in the saddle for days and the short stop in the town a few miles back had not been much of a respite for his aching muscles. As his horse walked lazily down the well-travelled dirt road, Benoit rolled his shoulders. He sighed in contentment as his neck muscles appreciated the exercise.

"How much further, Papa?"

Benoit glanced to his left and smiled down at the little boy in the wagon beside him. The little boy looked up at him with wide inquisitive brown eyes that were hiding under a mop of dark curly hair.

"It cannot be too much further now, Sebastien." Benoit glanced over the four-year-old's head for confirmation.

"Stop nagging your poor father, Bash. We are very close," Odette told the small child beside her. She glanced up at Benoit and smiled fondly.

Benoit smiled back at her and then looked away. His gaze rested on the turn at the end of the road in the distance. He should know which way they needed to go. He should know whether they needed to follow the road left or right. He should have been able to give his son an answer without having to look to his wife for direction.

"Bash, can you see up ahead of us?" Odette asked. Benoit turned back to his family as his wife was pointing to the turning point in the road coming up. Sebastien nodded, his dark curls bouncing with enthusiasm. "Which way do you think we will have to turn? Shall it be left or right?"

Sebastien glanced at him as if looking for some clue. Benoit desperately wanted to be able to share this with him, to be able to provide some sort of information. But he had none. He shrugged with a smile as if playing part in a game and watched as his child tried to guess the answer to the question.

Sebastien's little arm shot out, pointing to their right. He looked to his mother for approval. "That way!"

Odette laughed, nodding her agreement with the child's assessment. "That's right. Once we turn right here at the end of the road it's only another mile in that direction."

"How long is a mile?" Sebastien asked.

Benoit smiled. That was something he could answer. "It should take us no longer than thirty minutes at the rate we are travelling."

"Thirty minutes?" Sebastien whined.

"We've been travelling for days. I am certain you can last another half of an hour, my child," Odette chuckled.

Sebastien turned to look at him, his eyes beseeching. Benoit had learnt very quickly that this child –  _his child_  – had magical powers hidden in the brown depths of his eyes. "Can't we go any faster, Papa?"

Benoit opened his mouth to answer but was cut off by the sound of his wife's stern voice. "Not if you don't want to wake your sister. Come now, it will not kill you to wait a little bit longer."

Benoit glanced over his shoulder to the covered back of the wagon to where he knew his two other children to be. Mathieu and Elouise. It was not his baby daughter that filled his mind but her older brother. Mathieu had been distant with him. Actually distant was probably too tame a word for how the ten-year-old had been. The boy had been hostile, lashing out at his siblings, at his mother but especially at him. Resentment poured from the child in waves and Benoit couldn't help but wonder what he had done to deserve such treatment from his own son.

"Papa?"

Benoit startled out of his thoughts to see two sets of eyes on him. "What?"

"Did you remember something? You seemed lost in thought." Odette, twisted the leather reigns in her hands as she looked at him anxiously.

"No." He wished he could remember something. He wished he could remember anything. Anything at all. But alas his mind was void. Anything before two weeks ago was a complete mystery to him and he hated it. "Sorry."

"Papa, did you even hear what I said?" Sebastien asked exasperatedly.

Benoit chuckled. "Forgive me," he said, placing his hand to his chest. "My mind was elsewhere. What did you say?"

"Can I ride with you? On your horse? Please?" Sebastien pleaded.

Benoit looked to Odette for permission like he had the last couple of weeks since waking up with no idea of who he was and where he was. Before Odette could once again remind him that he was their father and could therefore make decisions, Benoit moved the horse closer to the moving wagon and then dropped the reigns. "Come on," he said as he reached down and pulled the waiting child up onto the horse.

"Be careful," Odette warned.

"We'll be fine," Benoit assured her with an added wink for good measure.

"Can we go faster?" Sebastien asked.

"Sure."

"Not too fast," Odette followed up with, a warning to her tone.

Benoit made sure the boy was situated safely in front of him, his small body pressed against his front. He wrapped one arm around Sebastien's small torso and leaned forward, the reigns tightly held in his free hand.

"Are you ready?" Benoit whispered.

Sebastien nodded and Benoit could just picture the excited grin on his face. "Hold on tight then." With a shout and a kick with his heels his horse jolted forward into a gallop. Sebastien cried out at the sudden movement and then laughed in delight as they moved further and further away from the wagon carrying their family.

A wild smile spread across Benoit's face as they sped up towards the end of the main road. The excited shrieks coming from his son as they moved, wind hitting their faces, was something that felt right. Nothing much had since he'd woken up from his accident. Nothing had felt right or natural. But this. Spending time with his children, enjoying their laughter. That is something that he felt deep in his bones. It was a call of duty. He wanted this. It must be true. It was the one thing that kept the fear of the unknown away.

Benoit pulled on the reigns a little, slowing the horses speed to a more leisurely gait. He didn't want to get too far ahead from the rest of the family. It felt good though. Just riding, no expectant eyes on him waiting for him to remember something. If he were completely honest with himself, he wouldn't have minded riding like this all day. His muscles and tired body would probably protest but mentally it was invigorating.

All good things, however, must come to an end. He wasn't sure where he had heard that before but he knew it to be true as a farmhouse could be spotted in the distance. He pulled on the reigns tighter to slowly bring his horse to a stop.

"Woah…" he called gently to the horse as it whinnied and stamped its feet on the dirt below them. "Good girl," he praised.

"Why are we stopping, Papa?" Sebastien asked. The mass of brown curls bounced as he attempted to twist in the saddle to look behind him at Benoit.

Benoit stared at the house in the distance. It didn't look familiar. It didn't bring any feelings of nostalgia to his mind or heart. Instead he felt apprehension like none of this was right. He stared hard at the building a short distance away. From a distance it looked like an old house, fence railings looked to be in a shambles. It appeared that no-one had lived there in some time. If he had lived here as a child, he could not remember it.

"Papa?" Sebastien called him again. "Papa, are you even listening to me?"

Benoit glanced down at the child and couldn't help the grin that formed at his exasperated expression. He'd learnt very quickly that the child had very little patience. He supposed that might be normal for a child of four. But then he remembered he actually didn't know much about children … or at least he didn't remember what children were really like. Benoit chuckled. "I am listening to you. We cannot just leave your mother behind."

"But they are catching up now. See?" Sebastien pointed to the wagon trailing dust in the distance. Odette had picked up speed.

Benoit squinted in an attempt to see better and found that she was no longer seated alone. Mathieu was seated on the bench seat beside her. Benoit didn't need to see any closer to know that the boy would be wearing his usual scowl. It had been a permanent fixture on the boy's face since Benoit had woken up from his accident.

"Can we go now? Can we beat them there? Please?" Sebastien's voice had gone from questioning to pleading all within the space of a few seconds. His pleading eyes were like a secret weapon that Benoit had quickly learnt were extremely dangerous. "Pleaaasee?" Sebastien added, drawing the word out as long as possible.

"Okay, okay. Hold on tight like you did before," Benoit instructed, waiting for the boy to wrap his small fingers around the horse's mane. "You ready?" he asked.

"Yes!" Sebastien squealed as Benoit once again set the horse in motion, leaving a trail of dust behind them.

xXx

"Get up!" Porthos growled.

The new recruit looked up at him from where he had landed on the hard ground. His hand reached up to caress his reddening jaw. The boy looked stunned and for a moment nothing like the cocky, arrogant image he'd been displaying for the last few months. Beaufort had come to them in a string of new recruits the King had ordered for the regiment. He'd showed immense potential as a soldier. His ability to fight was scary for a recruit so young. But along with his talent came a massive attitude.

Porthos was more than happy to rid the boy of this attitude. He was more than happy to teach the little whelp what it really took to become a Musketeer. He was more than happy to beat some bloody sense into the bastard. They didn't have time for people that didn't deserve to be there. They didn't have time for distractions.

Porthos circled him once more. "I said get up!"

Beaufort rubbed his jaw once more before locking eyes with Porthos. He growled something under his breath that Porthos couldn't catch and then pushed himself to his feet. The young man rolled his shoulders as he too began to circle his opponent. "That was a cheap shot, Porthos."

Porthos rolled his eyes as he slowly moved in conjunction with the recruit, not allowing him to get too close. "You need'ta learn that not all fights are won by bein' respectable."

Beaufort looked around at the crowd of Musketeers who had stopped what they were doing to watch the training unfold. The recruit looked back to him, cocking his head to the side as he got himself back into a fighting stance. "I thought the Musketeers fought with honour? Where is your honour?"

Porthos launched forward without warning and landed a punch against the boy's nose. The crunch of cartilage could be heard causing many of the spectators to wince in sympathy. Porthos stood back as blood released from his opponent's nose, quickly staining his white shirt.

Beaufort grabbed for his nose, the red liquid continued to rain down over his fingers as he growled in pain and frustrating. "You brute! I think you broke my nose!"

Porthos shrugged. "It'll heal. Keep up. If you want to survive in a real fight you can't cry the moment a little blood is spilt! Come at me!" Porthos demanded, his voice rising in frustration. He beckoned the boy to attack, motioning him with his hands. "Move it!" he yelled when Beaufort didn't move fast enough.

Beaufort dropped the hand covering his nose and growled. His eyes blazed in anger seconds before he flew at Porthos, lashing out with a punch to the larger man's face. Porthos pulled back, feeling the boy's fist just barely graze his face. Beaufort recovered from the miss quickly, following up with a swing from his left fist. Porthos knocked it aside and surged forward, lifting his knee and ramming it into Beaufort's midsection. The recruit doubled over as the air left his lungs.

Porthos smiled in victory just before he found himself being shoved back by Beaufort's shoulder slamming into his stomach. Musketeers scattered as Porthos back hit a wooden post, the force of his weight cracking the wood slightly. He grunted with the impact, pain lancing up through his muscles. He growled instantly latching onto the loose-fitting white shirt Beaufort was wearing and pulled the younger man towards him, moving slightly so the boy's head would connect with the same wooden pole his back had just been introduced to.

Beaufort slid to the slide, allowing his body to slump to the ground as he held his head in his hands.

Breathing a little heavier than before, Porthos forced his body to stand up straighter. The abused muscles in his back hurt a little more than he expected from his introduction to the pole. He stretched, rotating his shoulders to work the kinks out of his back. He lifted his gaze to the men hovering around him.

"What're you lookin' at?" Porthos growled, daring any of his fellow soldiers to question his training methods. Porthos huffed. He didn't have time for their disappointed or confused stares. Porthos turned around and stalked past a couple of muttering Musketeers, pushing them aside when they didn't move fast enough. "Get back to work, the lot of you!" He shouted as he stormed off in the opposite direction of the crowd that had formed.

Porthos found himself in the stables. The stable boy – Jacques – took one look at him and scampered away like Porthos was likely to rip him in two for simply daring to breathe in his presence. Porthos was glad. He didn't want company right now. He didn't want the cautious glances sent in his way or the so called words of wisdom from well-doers. What he wanted he couldn't have, not unless he went against Treville's direct orders.

There was a soft nickering from the stalls to his right. His horse had moved to the front of the stall with his head over the bottom door. The horse seemed to be looking at him and if Porthos wasn't mistaken the animal almost seemed concerned at the anger radiating from him. He bobbed his head up and down as if calling Porthos over. He obliged, slowly approaching his stead with an open hand. He gently placed his large hand on the long nose of his horse. "Hey there…" Porthos greeted softly.

The horse nickered again and pushed up against his hand. Porthos found himself smiling slightly as his horse attempted to nuzzle. Porthos stroked the top of the horse's nose before reaching up with his right hand to rest against the animal's strong neck. The horse nudged him again and Porthos stood back and quickly found that the feed bucket was at his feet. He reached down to collect some and then brought his hand up to his horse's mouth. "Ahh… so that's what you wanted," Porthos surmised with an amused grin.

Another dark head appeared from the stall next to his, the large dark brown eyes met his and Porthos felt his heart constrict. He gave his horse one last pat before he collected some more grain and moved over to the neighbouring stall.

"Hey girl…" Porthos greeted, he lifted his grain filled hand offering the feed to the Friesian. The normally temperamental horse was uncharacteristically calm as it ate the grain from his hand. "Where is 'e, girl?" He asked. He moved his head back quickly as the horse answered with a whinny and a head-bob that was more reminiscent of its usual spirited nature. "I know, I know," Porthos cooed as he reached up to place his hand on the horse's nose. "I miss 'im too."

"We all do."

Porthos glanced to his right, finding Athos leaning against the entrance to the stables. His arms were folded across his chest and his face looked devoid of any one particular emotion. The older man had adopted a casual stance and for some reason that stoked the fire that had been burning in Porthos' heart.

"Wouldn't know it to look at ya," he remarked, standing away from his friend's horse to give his full attention to Athos who simply raised an eyebrow. "Come to give me an earful?"

Athos stood straight, moving away from the stable doors. "Over what?" he asked as he moved further into the room.

"Don't play innocent with me, Athos. I know ya better than that. Beaufort got what he deserved." The little shit deserved a lesson in respect and humility and Porthos had been only too happy to oblige.

Athos nodded, tucking his hands into the belt around his waist as he moved over to the stall housing the black Friesian. "The boy is definitely feeling sorry for himself."

Athos leaned back against the wooden wall of the stall, one foot back against the wall. Again it was an infuriating casual stance that made Porthos' anger hit the surface.

"Good! Maybe 'e won't die next time 'e's in a real battle."

"Somehow I doubt your spectacular training session had much to do with teaching the lad a lesson. You're right, My friend. I do know you."

"Your point?" Porthos challenged.

"Beaufort may be an arrogant git, but it's not his fault," Athos cut straight to the point. That annoyingly truthful point. Athos had never been one to beat around the bush and right now was no different.

"You think I don't know that?" Porthos snapped.

"It's not my fault either," Athos pointed out. His words were stated calmly but Athos eyes betrayed him. There was something hiding in the blue depths. Guilt or regret, one or the other. Or maybe both. Porthos knew the feeling well … too well. "Trust …"

Porthos growled, interrupting Athos next words. "We should be out there looking for 'im, Athos!"

"We did and we found nothing. At all," Athos stated, his calm giving way to frustration at the common argument between them. "Eventually Treville had to call us back."

"For what?" Porthos asked, his tone incredulous. "So we could baby sit a childish king or a bunch of new recruits?" It was a stupid question. They were Musketeers and their duty was to their King.

"We have our duty," Athos sighed.

Porthos wanted to roll his eyes or punch something. "Our duty is to our brother." His duty was to their King but in his heart he could not lay his duty to his friend to rest. It weighed on his heart every waking hour and plagued his dreams.

"I agree with that, Porthos." Athos ran a hand down his face as his tone suddenly became more defeated than Porthos could ever remember hearing him. Athos met his gaze with a steady stare. "What would you have me do? There was no sign of him anywhere."

"We should have kept looking." Coming back to Paris without their missing comrade had been one of the hardest things he'd ever had to do. It went against every beat of his heart. But Athos had been right. They had searched high and low and had found nothing. Not even a hint of their friend. Porthos had been ready to bash heads together and tear the town apart. How could a Musketeer just disappear of the face of the earth? "King or not, we should've kept lookin'."

"Treville hasn't abandoned the search, Porthos. He has feelers out there. I promise you that we will never give up the search. I could never give up."

Porthos met Athos' tired eyes and felt some of his ire leave. It was not Athos' fault. The older man was hurting just as much as they all were. As Athos had told him earlier, it was not his fault and Porthos knew that it was not Beaufort's fault. Porthos felt himself deflate a little. "Dammit, I have some apologies to make."

Athos cleared the couple of feet between them and pressed a hand to Porthos' shoulder. "We will find him; I promise …"

"Athos!" The shout preceded the heavy footfalls. "Porthos!"

Athos broke away from them and followed Porthos gaze to the stable entry. d'Artagnan skidded to a stop just inside the stable. His young face was full of hope and excitement, causing Porthos to take a couple of steps forward. "What is it?" he asked.

d'Artagnan took a large intake of breath, recovering from what had obviously been a mad dash from who knew where. Swallowing hard, d'Artagnan finally spoke. "It's Captain Treville. He has news about Aramis!"

**TBC...**

* * *

**A/N:**  If anyone is still interested in my work or the musketeers and actually read this, I hope you enjoyed. I hope you're intrigued and I hope you'll be back at the next chapter. Thanks for coming by. See you soon :)


	2. Chapter 2. On The Road Again

“Drop the stick!” Sebastien cried, his voice high and shrill. “Come on, Felix, drop the stick! Drop the stick!”

Benoit winced as his son’s voice got higher and higher with every command to the newest member of their family. Felix was – according to his wife – a Papillion dog. Benoit had agreed to take her word on that. He couldn’t remember his own name but for some reason he knew he didn’t really know anything specific about dogs.

“Felix! Felix! Drop the stick, Felix!” Sebastien was running around in front of the house. The dog was keeping the kid on his toes. Benoit was pretty sure that Felix was the one running this game. The dog was beginning to show his cunning side.

Felix had wondered onto their land not long after they had arrived at their home. He was scraggy and dirty and looked half dead. Benoit had no idea where the little dog had come from but Sebastien had begged and begged for Benoit to save the little thing. He’d then begged and begged to be able to keep the dog. Benoit had promised the child that if the dog survived they could keep it. It turned out that the little scruffy Papillion had been stronger than he looked. A week later and it was like he’d never been on deaths door.

Benoit balanced high up on the ladder against the front of the house. The house needed fixing. The roof had holes in it, some of the walls were rotted and the floorboards near the fireplace were weak and dangerous. And that was just the house. If they wanted to live off the land like they had planned, they had a lot of work to do with the whole property. But … first things first – the roof. While there was no sign of rain he would make sure that the roof over his family’s heads was safe.

He wiped a white rag against his sweaty forehead, and then down his clean-shaven face. It was hot, his dark curls were sticking flat to his head with the humidity, just like it had been the whole week they’d been living at the house … his house.

It felt strange to claim this house as his own. Odette had promised him that this place had been in his family for many years. She had promised him that he had in fact lived here in his childhood. He had hoped that seeing the place would have sparked a memory or at least given him a sense of vague familiarity. He’d been desperately hoping for something to hold onto as not even his children had jogged any kind of memory. He didn’t feel a connection with his wife. They were like two separate people who shared a living space with children. But to his disappointment the house, the land nor the barn had caused any memories to surface. His past was as blank as it had been since waking up and being told that his name was Benoit Lareau.

“Felix!” Sebastien shrieked in frustration.

“Oh Shut up!” Mathieu shouted back. It was the first time the boy had spoken a word since walking out of the house that morning.

Benoit looked back and down towards where his oldest son was sitting on the wagon. The ever-present glare was firmly on his face but this time it was directed at his brother.

“ _You_ shut up!” Sebastien yelled back over his shoulder as he dove for Felix and missed. The dog danced around him, his ears perked and his tail wagging like he was having the time of his little life.

Mathieu jumped off the wagon and all but stomped over to where Sebastien and Felix were playing. Mathieu’s longer legs and faster reflexes outwitted the fluffy ball of energy and suddenly the stick was ripped from his mouth.

“Hey!” Sebastien cried out. He jumped up to try and snatch the stick from his brother’s hand to no avail. “Give it to me! Mathieu! Give it back!”

Benoit frowned not liking where this was headed. The older boy was deliberately antagonising his brother out of frustration, or spite. Either way it would not be tolerated. “Mathieu! Give the stick back to your brother,” he called from his position on the ladder. He squinted down at the two boys, a sense of vertigo hitting him. He tightened his hold on the ladder, the panicked grip making it wobble beneath him.

Mathieu ignored him and instead teased the dog with the stick. Felix was now bouncing in front of him waiting expectantly for the stick to be thrown. Mathieu pulled his arm back and hauled the stick as far away as he could. The stick went flying over the decrepit fence and into the long grass.

Felix took off in the direction as soon as the stick left Mathieu’s hand, determined to get his prize.  Sebastien cried out and with both hands pushed the older boy. Catching him off guard, Mathieu fell to the ground. Sebastien didn’t wait for a response. He took off after the dog, under the fence and into the grass that was easily a foot taller than him.

Benoit could hear the front door of the house open as he slowly made his way down the ladder and to the safety of the ground. A wave of dizziness swept over him as he stepped back onto solid earth. He kept one hand clutching the ladder to keep his balance as he rode out the spell.

Odette was already walking down off the porch, baby Elouise in her arms. A frown was set deep between her brows as she approached. “Just what is going on out here?” she asked as she handed the one-year-old to him. He accepted the baby immediately, fighting the problem with his equilibrium. The last thing he wanted to do was drop his daughter. He was already clearly failing one child; he didn’t want to be a total failure as a father.

Without the weight of a baby in her arms, Odette stalked over to Mathieu and hauled him to his feet. The boy shirked away from her and gave her a scathing look that was usually reserved for him. “Well? What do you have to say for yourself?”

Mathieu stood there, tight-lipped and silent. He glanced from Odette to Benoit and then back to Odette again before lowering his eyes to the ground.

“Answer your mother,” Benoit ordered, adjusting the grip he had on the squirming baby in his arms.

“You can’t tell me what to do!” Mathieu shouted at him with an intensity that was surprising … even for Mathieu.

“Mathieu!” Odette gasped.

Benoit raised an eyebrow, giving his best stern look. “You can hate me for whatever reason you wish but you will respect your mother. Now answer her,” he ordered. He’d been lenient with the boy, not understanding why the child seemed to resent him so much. He couldn’t understand it but he would not stand for this disrespect.

Mathieu backed down slightly. “Yes sir,” he acquiesced through clenched teeth. The boy turned back to Odette. “Mama, Bash and that stupid dog …”

“What about Bash and his dog?” She asked him quickly, her voice tight and edged with disapproval.

Mathieu kicked the dirt with the tip of his boot as he explained. “He wouldn’t stop whining for the dog to give him the stick. So I got the stick for him.”

“It was a little less friendly than that,” Benoit commented as he tried to disentangle his hair out of Elouise’s chubby little hand. “Be truthful.”

“I … I got angry. He just kept on shouting at that stupid dog and I wanted him to stop.”

“And why weren’t you helping your father with the house like I told you to?” Odette asked, her hands going to her hips.

“Because …”

“That is not an answer, Mathieu!”

Mathieu squinted up at her and then his gaze locked on to him, his face set in frustration and anger. There was so much on the tip of the boy’s tongue. Benoit could feel it like a slap to the face even though nothing had yet been said. He wished he could get the child to open up, to tell him what he’d done so terribly wrong in order to receive the hate sent in his direction.

“I do not give orders for no reason,” Odette continued when no answer was forthcoming. She reached forward and grabbed a handful of the boy’s shirt. “You’re father needs …”

“What?” Mathieu challenged. “He’s not even…”

A loud, high pitched scream filled the air, sucking the life out of the argument that had been brewing between mother and son. Benoit felt panic seize his chest as he looked up and out towards the sound of terror. Mathieu turned quickly, gaze fixed on where the scream had come from.

“Where’s Bash?” Odette asked, fear creeping into her voice as she scanned the front of the property.

At the sound of his mother’s voice, Mathieu took off without warning. The boy charged over the decrepit fence and into the long grass. Within seconds Mathieu was out of sight. Benoit pulled Elouise away from his chest and shoved her into Odette’s waiting arms. “Stay here,” he ordered.

Relieving his belt of his dagger and gripping it tightly, Benoit ran in the direction of his son. His heart was pounding as he sailed over the broken down fence and plunged into the long grass that occupied their field. He ran hard, following the trail of flattened and broken grass Mathieu had left behind in his haste.

A shriek of fear reignited his sense of direction and Benoit raced towards the sound. Exiting the grass, Benoit raced into a thick of trees towards where he knew there to be a stream. It felt like forever and he found himself wondering how the children could have managed to get so far away so quickly.

Approaching the top of the small incline that lead to the stream, Benoit stopped in his tracks at the sight that was before him. Down by the base of a tree on the other side of the water, Mathieu was scrambling to help his sobbing and hysterical younger brother up a large tree. A mere fifteen feet from that tree was a wild boar. It stood there, snout pushing into the small remains of a very dead little Papillion dog.

Benoit spared half a second to be crushed at the sight before his sense of urgency returned. The Boar knocked the dead dog once more with its bloody snout before it raised his head and remembered that a bigger feast of two small boys was just before him. 

It stomped and huffed in preparation as Benoit felt himself move without thought, his pistol gripped in his right hand. His boots tore up the ground as he raced against a wild animal that was intent on harming his children. Benoit felt panic as the boar picked up speed. He wasn’t going to make it in time. Not in time to stop the beast.

“Mathieu!” he screamed and pushed his legs to move faster.

The older boy turned at the sound of his scream as Sebastien finally managed to cling to a sturdy branch. Mathieu’s wide eyes locked with his as the boar closed the distance. Benoit dove the rest of the way, wrapping his arms around his son and turning so that his body acted as a shield. Benoit cried out as the animal’s tusks penetrated his skin, digging deep into his side. The grip he’d had on the knife released, sending it flying in a direction that Benoit could not see. The boar released a high-pitched cry as it tried to dislodge itself from Benoit’s side.

Benoit pushed Mathieu out from under him. “Run!” he screamed at the boy as the tusk was ripped from his flesh. He twisted without thought and grabbed hold of the animal by its dangerous bloody tusks. It surged forward with a grunting squeal, almost impaling him a second time. Benoit cried out as his body shook with the force of the animal’s surprising power.

Struggling to hold the enraged animal off, Benoit was surprised when a loud pain-filled squeal filled the air moments before the pressure on him is released. The boar backed off and for a moment Benoit was confused. He laid there for a moment trying to catch a breath and glanced to his side. Mathieu was still on the ground. He was on his rear, staring at the Boar who coward backwards, Benoit’s knife protruding from the back of its neck.

Benoit gingerly tried to rise off the ground as the injured animal now huffed and whined. “Math … Mathieu, go! N-Now …” Benoit ordered shakily, his side lighting up in agony as he got to his knees. The boar backed up further, enraged and preparing to rampage upon its new threat. “Mathieu! Run!” Benoit shouted as he launched himself at the crazed animal.  He reached for its mane as the fingers of his other hand wrapped around his knife. He wrenched the blade from the pig’s flesh and then was pulled forward as the beast launched itself forward.

Mathieu shrieked and back-peddled, fumbling with an attempt to get to his feet. Benoit latched onto boar almost riding it in an attempt to gain control. He thrusted the knife into the boar’s throat and with a second final move, buried the knife in the animal’s skull.

The boar dropped, the sudden motion sending Benoit crashing to the ground. He lay there for a moment, the only sounds coming from the whimpering boy in the tree and his own heavy laboured breathing. His side ached to the rhythm of his pounding heart. He was wet, drenched with sweat and blood and mud.

He needed to get up. He needed to check on the boys. Clenching his eyes shut, Benoit forced his muscles into action. He gritted his teeth and tried to hold back a groan as he rolled over. He paused on his side for a moment, reaching around with one hand to his left side to press against the burning pain that resided there. Glancing up, Benoit opened one eye and then the other and frowned at the sight of Mathieu. He was still on the ground, arms behind him holding him up as he starred at the now dead boar.

Benoit grunted as he shifted again. “Mathieu,” he called as he attempted to push himself to his knees. The boy didn’t answer him, his eyes fixed on the dead animal as if in shock. Benoit wanted the boys out of there, back in the relative safety of their crumbling home.

“Mathieu!” He called the boy’s name with a little more force this time and was rewarded with a startled jump. It seemed to do the trick, snapping him back to the present. Mathieu’s eyes widened and he scrambled to his feet with a lot less effort than it seemed to be taking Benoit. “Mathieu,” Benoit called again, softer this time as the boy approached him. “I need you to get your brother and get back to the house.”

“But … but what about you?” Mathieu asked. It was the first time he had seen anything in the realm of concern or care directed at him from the child. It was nice. Benoit just wished it hadn’t taken them to nearly be eaten by a crazed wild boar to receive it.

Benoit shook his head; dark sweaty curls fell across his eyes. “I’m fine. Your mother will be worried. Go.”

Mathieu looked at him sceptically but didn’t protest any further. He turned and rushed over to the tree that still held his crying younger brother. Benoit sat back on his haunches, one arm wrapped around his mid-section, hand pressed against the still bleeding wound. He watched as Mathieu called his brother down and caught the younger boy in his arms.

As soon as Sebastien’s feet hit the ground he was running to Benoit, crashing into him hard enough to elicit a gasp. He felt small arms wrap around his neck and after a moment he returned the hug with his free arm, squeezing the child tight. “It’s okay,” he whispered into the child’s hair.

Sebastien cried into his shoulder, unintelligible words through his fearful heaving tears. He thought he heard the word sorry a few times and maybe the name Felix. Benoit’s heart broke as he held onto the sobbing child. Poor Felix had never stood a chance.

“It’s going to be okay.” It wasn’t right now. But it would be. “Bash …” Benoit tried to pull away to look at his son but the boy just held on tighter. “Sebastien, I need you to go with your brother.” He looked over the child’s shoulder to Mathieu who was standing back and for the first time looked like he wasn’t entirely sure what to do. He met Mathieu’s gaze and nodded, trying to once again extract himself from the death grip that Sebastien had on him. “Come on …”

“Come on, Bash. Mother will be worried,” Mathieu tried, grabbing the younger boy by the shoulders and helping to break the embrace.

“W-What about Felix?” Sebastien hiccupped. His small body shaking in the after effects of the trauma they’d all just gone through.

“Bash, Felix is d-…”

“I’ll take care of Felix,” Benoit interrupted his son’s lack of tact. “Now go home with your brother. Promise me. You’ll both go straight home.” With lack of answer from either boy, Benoit asked again. “Promise me.”

Sebastien allowed himself to be pulled into a side-hug by his brother. Both boys nodded. “We p-promise, Papa,” Sebastien added.

Benoit sighed with relief. There would be no more arguments right now. “Go now. I’ll be right behind you.”

Hesitantly Mathieu and Sebastien both backed away and then turned, quickening their pace as they headed back to the farmhouse.

Benoit sagged with more relief. He pulled his hand away from the wound in his side and held it up in front of him. It was covered in blood. His blood, the boar’s blood. It was coated. It felt … familiar. The smell, the feel of it. The sudden flash of familiarity hit him hard. He stumbled back onto his rear and sat there for a moment feeling tired and disorientated. Why the hell would blood bring back a sense of memory. It was like his life before his accident was just in front of him behind a locked door but the key was just out of reach.

Xxxall4onexxx

_“I cannot just walk away!”_

_“Well you must! YOU made this choice! Now for you to live with it you MUST forget it ever happened!”_

Athos played the last conversation he’d had with Aramis over and over in his mind. No. That was a wrong choice of words. It had not been a conversation. It had been an argument. A private argument between the pair because no-one could know what had been discussed.

In truth, Athos hadn’t meant to come down so hard on his friend. He wasn’t completely without feelings. The other man had been through much, had lost much. Aramis’ heart was too big for its own good. But that was also precisely why they were in the incredulous situation that they had found themselves … Aramis fathering the Queen’s child.

No-one could know. Aramis had promised him that he could handle the burden of what had transpired. He had promised Athos that he understood the ramifications of his actions and that he would keep his distance. Athos believed him. He believed that Aramis had intended to keep that promise. But the further along the Queen’s pregnancy advanced the more reckless Aramis had become … the broodier he became.

The errand had been Athos’ idea. Send Aramis away on a simple solo errand for Treville. Away from the palace, away from the queen and the constant growing reminder that he could not have what he so desperately wanted. A simple easy mission to deliver a message to an old retired soldier that would have sent Aramis two days ride from Paris. Instead two months later their brother had yet to return. It was like he had vanished without a trace. It had been his idea and now Aramis was missing. Just like Aramis couldn’t put aside his impending fatherhood, Athos couldn’t put aside his guilt over their missing brother.

“Athos!”

Athos startled out of his thoughts, tightening his hold on the reigns. He glanced beside him to d’Artagnan. The boy was wearing the same frown he’d been wearing for the two months their friend had been missing. “What is it?” he asked.

“Are you okay?” d’Artagnan asked.

Athos sighed and rubbed the back of his neck tiredly. “I’m fine.”

“And him?” d’Artagnan asked, indicating with a nod of his head towards Porthos who has riding up a head. “I’m worried about him,” he confessed.

“Porthos will be fine,” Athos answered. Porthos had been irritable for the months since Aramis disappearance and he’d been single-minded and obsessive since they had been given permission to investigate three days prior. Athos knew that fine was a poor description for Porthos right now.

d’Artagnan raised an eyebrow.

“What is it?”

“Is that the only answer you can provide?” d’Artagnan asked. The boy sighed, glancing out to Porthos and then landed his gaze back on Athos. “Forgive me but … things do not seem fine. You both do not seem fine. I … I am not fine,” he admitted. “And before you suggest it Aramis is … he is not fine. If he was, we wouldn’t be in this situation.”

Athos paused. For once not really knowing what to say. d’Artagnan was right. Everything was far from fine. He turned to meet the boy’s steadfast gaze. “What would you have me say?” Athos asked.

“I …” d’Artagnan paused for a second. “I don’t know. But I am worried. What do we do if we don’t find what we need in this town?”

That thought had crossed Athos’ mind more than once since Captain Treville had advised them that there might be a lead on Aramis in the town of Aumelas. They had set off immediately for the town. It was at the very least a weeks ride from Paris and nowhere near where Aramis had been sent on his solo errand.

“I mean, even if Aramis was in this town as we hope he might not be by the time we arrive. And if he was there what was he doing there? Why has he not sent word to us?” d’Artagnan’s concerns spewed forth like the flood gates had been opened. “What if Aramis was never there at all and this is all for nothing?”

Athos wished he had the answers to calm the young musketeers worry. Alas, he could not calm his own. A part of him wondered if Aramis had decided to leave for good, to vanish on purpose instead of coming back to a world where his desires were just out of reach. The thought was squashed as soon as it appeared. Aramis would never leave without a trace. He would not worry them like that. But the alternative … Athos feared that the alternative was much worse.

He glanced up, searching their surroundings. Finding a cluster of trees off in the distance not far from the side of the road, Athos pointed in their direction. “We should stop there for the night.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Athos witnessed d’Artagnan’s jaw tighten. He didn’t mean to ignore the boy’s questions. He just didn’t have any of the answers. To d’Artagnan’s credit he didn’t continue his onslaught. He’d always had a knack for reading Athos well and right now it was appreciated.

“I’ll catch up to Porthos and let him know. He’d ride all night if we let him.” With that d’Artagnan gave his horse a quick kick and took off to catch their irritable friend.

Athos dropped his head and sagged in the saddle for a moment. He was tired. And worried. He reached up and removed his hat from his head, normally wavy brown hair, dark and sweaty. Wiping one forearm across his damp forehead, Athos then looked up to the sky. Hoping against all his nagging concerns that they would find their wayward brother. If Aramis was okay they could deal with everything else.


	3. Chapter 3. Maybe Things Will Be Alright

A/N: I should have known I would get behind. I deeply apologize to anyone still waiting to read more. I promise this story will not be abandoned. Work is, even more than usual, burying me in crap. But I will be posting this til end :)

* * *

**Chapter 3. Maybe things will be alright.**

_Heat and fire blasts over him. The force of it nearly knocks him off his feet as he ducks for cover. The atmosphere is heavy around him. It is filled with screams and pistol fire. His heart is beating so fast that he fears it might beat right out of his chest. Another explosion rocks the ground around him, bark and dirt fly at him, stinging his eyes and face as he tries to shield himself with his forearm._

_Out of the chaos comes a force that knocks him to the ground. He hits hard and cries out as his side lights up in pain. He presses his palm against his side and winces. Pulling his hand away he looks down in awe. It's covered in blood. His blood. His chest seizes._

_There is a figure in front of him. Trees are being splintered behind it by pistol and cannon fire. The figure has no face. It stands there for a moment and he feels frozen to the spot, transfixed on the threat before him. The figure moves in slow motion, a contradiction to the fast and bloody activity around them._

_He scrambles back as the figure unveils a large sword. The hulking figure moves fast suddenly, swinging his weapon with deadly intent. Without thought, he reaches for the pistol he knows is strapped to his lower back. With a rolling escape, his foe's blade very nearly slices him open. With a quick twist he brings up his pistol and fires without thought or care. His aim is true, and his assailant falls to his knees before collapsing in an unmoving heap just before him._

_Death-screams wail around him. Pistol fire explodes near him and a spray of fresh blood lands across his face. A body crashes into his, sending them both spinning to the ground in a heap. A cool sharp metal pierces his side, causing him to cry out a guttural roar. Ripping the weapon out of his side, blood flooding his shirt, he finds himself in a wrestling match. Another set of hands join his in a fight for the knife that had once impaled him._

_His muscles are aching, his side is screaming, and he can feel himself losing this fight. A baby wails, different to screams of the dying men around him. The baby sounds scared, it needs help … HIS baby needs help. He lifts his knee and strikes his enemy hard in the groin earning himself a moments respite from the pressure. It's all he needs. He grits his teeth and jams the knife up into the underside of his attacker's jaw._

_Scrambling out from under the now dead body, he follows the baby's cries. Calling out for it. He is scrambling in the dark. Smoke and fire have blinded his way and he cannot find the baby._

_Suddenly he is captured. Is being held by both arms, dragged into a dark throne room. A figure looms over him as he is forced to his knees._

" _Treason!"_

_The word echoes, shouted at him from the figure looking down at him from above. He cannot see the person's face. But panic fills his heart as he can hear the baby screaming. He is pressed down onto a stone block. He can feel the press of sharp steel against the back of his neck. He's struggling as the baby continues to scream. His breath catches in his throat as what he knows as a blade is pulled away from him. His heart pounds fast as the sound of a blade whistling through the air above him can be heard…._

He awoke with a gasp, his heart racing, his side throbbing with a fresh pain. His eyes darted around the dark room. Where was he? His chest heaved as he swallowed thickly. Bringing a shaky hand up to the back of his neck, he rubbed the spot where he could still feel the ghostly whisper of an executioner's blade. Drenched curls were matted at the back of his head and pressed to the side of his face. He wiped at them shakily. A murmur beside him caused him to tense and turn. Beside him was a sleeping woman who looked on the verge of waking from her slumber. Who was she? He blinked. Odette … it was Odette. His … wife. He sucked in a shaky breath. He was Benoit. He took another slow shaky breath.

Odette moved restlessly beside him. "The… baby…" She mumbled.

The baby. He could still hear it crying. Not it.  _She_. Elouise. His daughter, he reminded himself. This wasn't a dream. The baby was his daughter. And she was crying in the bassinette across the room from them. "I'll …" his voice croaked. "I'll get her."

Benoit moved his legs over the side of the bed, he bare feet touching the rough wooden floorboards. He could still feel the familiar ache from battle. Only the battle hadn't been against soldiers like in his dream. It had been against a boar. He pressed a hand against his bandaged side. It was strange. The ache, the pain, the fatigue of battle … it all felt like a familiar old friend. It was disconcerting. He shook his head as if to ride himself from the last vestiges from his dream. It  _was_  a dream. No … a nightmare. That was why this felt familiar. His nightmare still had a hold of him.

He stood up, quickly using still shaky hands to pull his trousers on and then stumbled almost blindly in the dark of the room towards the bassinette. All he needed to do was to follow the sound of the wails.

He quickly scooped the baby into his arms. Feeling the weight of his child as her crying became much louder when right next to his ear. "Shhhh …. Shhhh…" he tried, gently rocking her. Moving her to his uninjured side. The last thing he needed was a wayward kick to add to his injury.

The air was stifling in the room as he tried to calm the child down. His chest felt tight and Benoit realised he needed air and he needed air now. With Elouise still crying in his arms, albeit a little quieter now, Benoit pulled the curtain that kept their bedroom separate from the living area aside and headed straight for the front door of the house.

The night air, unencumbered by the stuffy air of the house, was like a soothing balm on his lungs. He stood there on the porch for a few long moments just breathing while silently rubbing soothing circles on the baby's back.

His escape from the house seemed to do the trick for both man and child. He was finding his chest unconstricted and Elouise had now toned her complaints down to a few hiccups as she rested her head on his bare chest. "I agree," he spoke to Elouise in hushed tones. "It's much better out here."

Benoit took the couple of steps down from the porch and glanced up at the sky. It was a clear night. Quite a few stars were out on display making the view a magical one. "Look, Elouise." He took his daughter's hand and pointed it to the sky. "It's … beautiful." It was calming. He watched as the baby looked quickly up at the sky, her large eyes seeming even larger in the moonlight.

She brought her attention back to him, her gaze transfixed on his and she smiled. The action brought an automatic smile to his lips. "As are you, m'lady."

He leaned forward and gave her a quick peck on the nose. It elicited a giggle as she reached up with a small chubby hand to rub at her nose, her head bobbing forward almost headbutting him in the process. Benoit chuckled. Resituating the baby more securely in his arms.

Running a hand over the baby's fine hair, he sighed. "I wish I remembered you," he whispered. He wanted to remember so desperately. He was learning to love these children. But he wanted to remember what it was like to be a father for the first time. He wanted to remember everything about them. But how could he when he didn't even remember who he was. It was like he was living a lie.

Benoit kissed the baby's forehead and then took a few more steps with his bare feet out the front of the house. He looked up to the sky wishing for the answers, for something or someone to show him the way. "I don't know what I am doing," he confessed to the night air.

His dark eyes searched the sky. "I … don't know what I am doing. I need … I need help."

Elouise babbled. Reaching up, she lightly patted the stubble growing there with the soft baby skin of her hand. "You want to help me?" He asked her, smiling sadly.

Walking over to the wagon, Benoit placed Elouise on the back and then stood there, leaning against it with his arms around her for support. His side was aching, and the beginnings of a headache was starting to make itself known. He groaned and ran a hand down his face. Baby Elouise's hand reached out latched onto his tightly. He was amazed by the strength.

He smiled at her and then looked up at the sky again. "I need help," he stated again. "God, I need your guidance." His plea was met with silence. He sighed. "None of this feels real." There was this nagging feeling, in the pit of his stomach that this was all wrong. That something was wrong. He was missing the big picture, only he didn't remember what that picture looked like because he couldn't remember anything. But that feeling had been sitting there from the moment he'd woken up after his accident.

Elouise squealed for his attention, slapping his arm. He smiled at her again. He couldn't help himself. If only she could give him the answers. "Who am I, Elouise?"

"Pa …pa!" she squawked happily.

His eyes widened. Had she just …

"Ben?"

Benoit jumped at the sound of his wife's voice. He twisted around to see her and gasped as the movement pulled on the stitches in his side. Odette stepped off the porch and hurried across the yard to them.

"What are you doing out here?" Odette asked as she approached him, reaching out to grab his arm. "You should be in bed," she stated in concern, reaching up to feel his forehead. "You have a fever."

"She called me papa," Benoit stated in happy surprise, ignoring his wife's concerns. He turned back to the baby and scooped her back up into his arms, giving her a squeeze. The honesty of children gave him hope. It was also what tore him down with uncertainty. Was this the answer to the guidance he had been praying for? "She called me papa," he stated again, smiling what felt like the biggest smile to grace his face since waking up.

"She did?" Odette asked, looking from him to the baby and then back to him. "Papa is her first ... Oh, Benoit this is …"

"Perfect," he finished for her. It was perfect. He felt happy. He hadn't realised how much he had needed to hear that. Sebastien called him that all the time. Mathieu refused to use that term at all. Elouise was that impartial middle.

Odette smiled at him. "Yes … it is." She reached up, pressing her palm to his sweaty cheek. "Come inside. You need to rest."

Benoit nodded, allowing Odette to take Elouise from his arms. He took a deep breath and took Odette's waiting free hand and allowed her to lead him back to the house. Once inside Benoit closed the door behind him. He leant there for a moment, feeling hot and achy. Out of the corner of his eye he spied Mathieu peaking from behind the curtain that separated the boys' bedroom from the main area. As if realising he had been spotted Mathieu disappeared behind the curtain again.

"I should speak to him," Benoit suggested as he pushed himself away from the door.

Odette turned around and shook her head, placing her free hand against his chest. "No. You are unwell and need rest. We need you. Please … just go to bed. I'll look after the children."

"You sure?" He asked. He wanted to be the best father he could be if that was what he was supposed to be. Sebastien was still beside himself with grief over Felix's death.

"I am sure. Please, we need you to be well. I'll look after everything."

Benoit hesitated for half a second more before his body reminded him that he really was feeling off. "If you insist."

"I do," she stated. "Please."

Benoit smiled as she stood her ground. She was strong and stubborn and for the first time he thought maybe he understood how they had come to be together. He felt lucky. She had gone out of her way to help him, bring him back to the family. But for the first time since awaking to this strange world he really looked at her. He met her eyes and saw something real, something soft … a sadness almost. He moved forward and placed his hand against her cheek as she had done before. He leaned forward slowly and softly pressed his lips to hers. He lingered there, opening his eyes and staring into the depths of her blue ones.

She licked her lips almost nervously. "What was that for?" she whispered.

His lips pulled into a small smile. "Thank you. For looking after us. We …" he paused for a moment before continuing. " _I_  am lucky to have you."

Odette stood unmoving, her lips a mere inch from his. And then suddenly the spell was broken, and she moved back, smiling at him. "Go to bed, Ben. Rest." And with that she turned and took Elouise with her into the boys' bedroom.

He almost felt dizzy. Maybe things would be alright.

Xxxall4onexxx

As they reached the town, d'Artagnan slowed his horse down to a leisurely gate beside Athos.

It was smaller than he'd pictured. A couple of houses, a church, an inn, a stable and what looked like a store. It was easy to see a new face in town might cause a stir. d'Artagnan couldn't imagine that they would get many visitors.

He turned to his right and glanced at Athos. "Captain Treville has a contact here?"

"An old friend. He owns the Inn."

"Soldier?" He enquired. He was curious. There was so much he still didn't know about their leader.

"Luc once managed the King's stables when Treville was but a young Musketeer," Athos explained. "He chose to retire in the country many years ago."

d'Artagnan cocked an eyebrow in confusion. "Working in an Inn doesn't much sound like retirement."

"He  _owns_ the Inn. And a man still must feed his family, d'Artagnan," Athos stated matter of factly. "Life does not come free."

"Unless you're the king," Porthos interjected.

d'Artagnan was surprised to hear Porthos' voice. The other man had barely said two words that didn't pertain to Aramis' disappearance and their mission to find him.

"Where is this bloody Inn anyway?" Porthos was clearly ready to get down to business. d'Artagnan couldn't blame him. Now that they were here he could also taste how close they were to an answer about their friend.

"Over there." d'Artagnan pointed to where he could see a massive wooden sign over the entry to the Inn. It looked like it had seen better days. "We could go there right now and see what we can find."

Porthos went to initiate his horse into a faster pace once more. Athos reached out and placed a hand on the larger man's shoulder. "What?" Porthos snapped.

"All in good time. The Inn keeper is not going anywhere, however our horses deserve a much-needed rest."

d'Artagnan instinctively reached forward and gave his horse a tender pat on its strong neck. They had been riding the poor animals hard in an attempt to get to this town as quick as possible. "Athos is right. Let's get the horses rested up in the stables."

Porthos growled in tired frustration but reluctantly nodded. "Alright then. Let's be quick 'bout this."

Reaching the stables, they make quick work of paying for their horses to be well looked after, while also securing fresh horses in case they need to head out again in a hurry. As Athos exited the stables he nodded to them indicating that all was arranged. Porthos huffed. "Good. Can we go now?"

Athos extended a hand indicating Porthos to lead the way. d'Artagnan shared a look with Athos as Porthos took off immediately, making long strides towards the Inn across the dirt street. "I hope this friend of Treville has some good information for us," d'Artagnan commented as he fell into step beside Athos. He wouldn't want to be in the Innkeeper's shoes with Porthos in this mood.

"Likewise," Athos agreed.

Porthos pushed open the doors to the Inn as if he meant business but thankfully not has harshly as d'Artagnan had been expecting. He wanted to find Aramis as much as any of them. But making enemies in the town wouldn't help their endeavour. d'Artagnan followed Porthos through the entrance, allowing his mentor to follow bringing up the rear.

While there were quite a few seating options in the poor looking establishment there was only two other people in the room. They were seated at a table in the far corner, quietly having a drink and looked to be playing a game of chess. A man stood at the bar, cleaning a mug. He looked up at their arrival, squinting in their direction. A look of recognition flitted across the man's face a moment later and he waived them over.

"Welcome Musketeers."

"Are you Luc?" Porthos asked in way of greeting.

"I am." Luc put down the now clean mug and beckoned them over once more. "Treville sent you?"

" 'e did," Porthos stated.

"Come, sit. Have a drink on the house … for old times' sake."

Athos moved past them both, taking control of the situation and making his way to the bar. He took a seat in front of Luc. d'Artagnan took that as a que to do the same. He patted Porthos on the back as he moved past him and joined Athos at the bar. Porthos paused for a moment before eventually following suit close behind.

"You must be Athos," Luc continued, placing a mug in front of the older Musketeer.

Athos nodded and then turned to indicate to both him and Porthos. "These are my friends, Porthos and d'Artagnan."

d'Artagnan extended a hand which was received with a strong handshake. "Nice to meet you."

"The pleasure is all mine," Luc responded, placing filling a couple of more mugs for them. "Captain Treville sent word that you would be coming. I hear you seem to be missing a Musketeer?" He stated thoughtfully.

"'e's our friend," Porthos interjected.

"Of course." Luc replied in earnest.

Porthos continued, without touching the ale in front of him. "You seen 'im?"

Luc shrugged his shoulders. "That I cannot say for sure."

"Well what can you say?" Porthos growled.

Luc glanced at Porthos but didn't seem intimidated. He stood his ground and sighed. "I saw a family come through town…"

"Aramis doesn't have a family," d'Artagnan interrupted. He was confident that their friend wasn't currently hiding a wife and kids somewhere.

"Well this man who came through here was travelling with a wife and three kids."

"That doesn't make any sense. That doesn't sound like Aramis at all," d'Artagnan responded, suddenly feeling deflated. Had they come all this way on a false lead?

Porthos stood up with a frustrated growl. "This is a waste of our time."

"Porthos …" d'Artagnan started as Porthos walked passed him. The older man didn't pause. He walked out of the Inn, slamming the doors open with a harder force than was absolutely necessary.

d'Artagnan stood up to follow.

"Leave him be," Athos stated, having not moved through the exchange.

"But …"

"He will be fine," Athos stated and then turned back to Luc. "I apologize for my friend. As you can imagine this is very important to us."

Luc waived a hand in the air. "No need to apologize. In truth I am not sure if this man is your missing friend." He placed both hands on the bar in front of them.

Athos took a sip of his ale before considering the man in front of them. "I assume there is a reason you contacted Treville."

"Yes." Luc nodded. "This family. They stopped by the shop across the street. They sold some of their possessions for supplies. One of those possessions happened to be a pauldron … a musketeer pauldron. I haven't seen one of those in these parts in a very long time."

"Where is it? Do you have it?" d'Artagnan asked. Their uniform was all unique to each soldier. Aramis' pauldron was worn and scarred from years of duty. They would know it if it were his.

"I do not. Tobias at the store has it, along with some other trinkets."

Athos pursed his lips, a frown furrowing his brow. He glanced up at Luc. "Was this man a Musketeer?"

"He didn't seem to be, but I only met him briefly. His wife mentioned that he was a farmer, that they were on their way home to his family's old homestead. There was no mention of soldiering."

Athos shared a look with d'Artagnan and then gave his attention back to Luc. "Can you describe this man?"

Luc seemed to consider his answer for a moment. "I … uhh .. Let's see. He had black curly hair, brown eyes .. umm.. he was about 6 foot tall. He was clean shaven for the most part. They were just passing through. The husband had been suffering from Migraines so when Tobias mentioned I had some doctoring skills she brought him over for me to have a look. They had no real money to speak of, so she paid me with this…" Luc reached into his pocket and pulled out a very familiar ornate cross.

Athos stood and reached out for the religious symbol. He rubbed his thumb over the top. "This is Aramis' cross."

"Your man?" Luc inquired. Athos nodded, his gaze transfixed to Aramis' most prized possession.

"Did he tell you his name?" d'Artagnan asked quickly, his chest tightening with intrigue and concern.

It didn't sound like the Aramis he knew. Why would Aramis be travelling with a family, claiming them to be his? It didn't make any sense whatsoever. And Aramis … selling his pauldron, that cross? It just didn't fit.

Luc's face scrunched up in thought. "Um …hold on …" He tapped his fingers on the bar top for what felt like an eternity and then his eyes lit up. He clicked his fingers and pointed a finger in d'Artagnan's direction. "Benoit. That was his name."

"Did this man, or his wife, say anything else?" Athos asked, a touch of desperation in his voice that sounded all kinds of wrong coming from the older man.

"He was in my presence for a very short amount of time. He barely spoke and when he did he sounded unsure. His wife did most of the talking. I do know that the old farm is probably about a day's right north of here. I'm sorry I cannot offer much more."

"No … you have been most helpful." Athos stepped back from the bar and immediately slipped Aramis' cross into his jacket pocket and then reached into his other pocket and produced a couple of coins and placed them on the bar in front of Luc. "Thank you."

Luc immediately swiped up the coins and deposited them straight into his vest pocket. d'Artagnan nodded his thanks and then turned with Athos to leave.

"I hope you find your friend," Luc called out as they left.

"As do we," Athos responded without looking black.

d'Artagnan followed him out the door. Finally, they had something to go on … he just hoped they liked what they found.

TBC…


End file.
